Two Sides to Every Story
by Reda
Summary: England gets a request from America to come visit in the middle of the night. An old ghost from the past has appeared - come back to haunt Alfred's thoughts, dreams, and waking nightmares. The American Civil War was bad enough without having to remember what happened to the almost-nation, the ever forgotten, ever misrepresented Confederacy. But why is she appearing now? /UsUk/


**Author Notes****:**

- This idea has been in my head for a long time. This is seriously one of the very first headcanons I ever concocted. It's probably because of my Southern American upbringing (and the fact that my mom is so obsessed with our genealogy and family stories during the Civil War).

**Pairings****: **UsUk, America/Confederacy

**Warnings****: **Domestic abuse. Dark!America. (ish? At some point? Felt necessary to warn about it, even if it's not in this chapter). Deals with the American Civil War issues from a different perspective (personally, I'm _quite sick_ of seeing it represented only as this fight over slavery when there is _so much more depth_ to it – even if slavery was a major catalyst)

**Summary****:**

November. England gets a call in the middle of the night. A request from America to come visit. An old ghost from the past has appeared. The other half of America come back to haunt Alfred's thoughts, dreams, and waking nightmares. Because the American Civil War was bad enough without having to remember what happened to the almost-nation, the ever forgotten, ever misrepresented Confederacy. But why is she appearing now?

~!~

Two Sides to Every Story

~!~

_November, 2012_

_Washington D.C., America_

Arthur Kirkland stood outside the plantation house of Alfred F. Jones' private get-away. The place Alfred technically lived whenever he was in his capital. (Apparently, Alfred had different homes scattered throughout different states – usually coinciding with state capitals or military bases). A place Alfred ran to when he couldn't stand to bunk in his precious White House, seeing as he had a hidden room reserved just for him. A place Arthur hadn't visited in a very, very long time.

The white paneling almost glowed in the night light, the moon reflecting from the nearby street lamps to make and cause shadows across the three story home. The grass around the plantation home had died out long ago, as no one seemed to care enough to water it and even if it was only mid-November, there was enough of a chill to keep the grass from growing. Though a more superstitious person might reflect that there were other reasons for the absence of such life. Arthur knew better. Whereas Arthur worked hard to keep his garden up, Alfred left it to others, tossing out paychecks with money he didn't have just to give a few poor souls a job.

...but this particular house and land had been abandoned long ago.

Arthur sighed, lifting his green eyes to the peeling paint of the blue-colored door. Setting his suitcase on the ground for now, he kept one gloved hand in his coat pocket and reached out with the other one to knock. There wasn't even an electric doorbell installed. Alfred had not been here in a very long time, either, not with care enough to upgrade the house to more modern times.

...which was strange in itself because Alfred was always one jumping at the chance to upgrade things.

He received no answer for all of his efforts to knock, and as he shifted his feet, hands curled in his coat pockets, he had to remind himself of his reason for coming all the way out here. A phone call. A mumbled request. A very out-of-character America moment. He was vulnerable. Something was bothering him.

"_Hey, Arthur."_

_-not only was it surprising to have the boy call him by his actual name without a hissed reminder, but Alfred actually sounded worried._

"_What is it, Alfred?"_

_-it had been nearly midnight when the call came; Arthur had been sitting in bed, reading, two minutes away from turning the lights off and falling asleep._

"_I – I don't know; I don't know why I just – could you – maybe come over?"_

_-before he could growl out a decisive no, he had been caught short by the tremble in America's voice; the boy seemed upset, on edge, and for reasons he didn't seem to be sure of himself; so, Arthur sighed instead of scowling._

"_This is rather sudden – and late, I might add."_

_-not that he would jump at any chance to visit, but this was most inopportune timing; granted, Alfred always had been terrible at recognizing the time zone difference._

"_I – I know. I just – Arthur – I can't explain it – please? - I'll pay for the trip -"_

_-again, his actual name and not some silly nickname, on top of an offer to buy his ticket across the ocean; something must have been seriously bugging the kid; Alfred hadn't been so eager to share his money lately, well, not toward Arthur; their national relations were growing weak at best; and the 'please!' - what on earth could be the matter?_

"_Alfred - "_

_-he had sighed, running a hand through his hair, thinking of the lack of sleep; a trip from London to Washington DC would __take about eight hours on average; it was already midnight and sometime around supper at America's place; not to mention, the trouble it would cause requesting a private jet for a flight in the middle of the night..._

"_Please, Arthur. I'm in the old plantation outside of DC. You remember that old place, right?"_

_-there had been a light chuckle in Alfred's voice, on the edge of hysterical, as if he were on the breaking point; Arthur had sighed again, throwing the covers off and setting his book on the nightstand as his legs swung over the side of his bed; the very mention of the place was enough to alert him to the severity of the situation._

"_Yeah, I remember. It's an eight hour flight, Alfred."_

_-he had said it for more than one reason; not only to alert Alfred to the trouble he was going through, but to remind the kid that he would need to watch himself for a full eight hours; there could be any number of reasons for Alfred calling and asking for him, but to be visiting that old place...and when looking back at the political state of America's country...it was enough to force Arthur's hand, enough to push him forward, enough..._

Standing in the cold night air, Arthur Kirkland looked around the veranda of the old plantation home. An old swing full of its own memories. Peeling white paint everywhere. Wood that was worn and cracking. Old lawn decorations, sitting clustered against the house, collecting dust. Flower pots no longer holding anything – not dead flowers, not fallen petals, not even soil with the hope of new life. So many things filled with so many memories. Memories that were America's – not his.

A breeze drifted through and Arthur shivered slightly, finding his green eyes glaring at the still unresponsive front door. He had half a mind to open it and bust inside anyway -

A light vibration in his coat pocket startled him just enough to make him jolt slightly. Pulling his personal smart phone out (every nation had one nowadays), Arthur glazed over the time. _3:30 – he was going to be horrendously jet-lagged. _He had a message from America. With a frown, he thumbed through his passcode and opened the text messaging to read what it was the brat had sent him.

_'Go ahead and come in. The door's open.'_

He had half a mind to chuck the phone at the door and stomp away in a tantrum. The impudent brat having the nerve to _text_ him instead of getting off his lazy arse and coming to open the door himself! After everything he went through to _get here_ in the first place! A phone call in the middle of the night. A random request without any explanation. And then this?

Clenching his teeth, he swallowed his frustration, set the phone back in his pocket, grabbed his suitcase, opened the door, and walked inside. Though the smell was different from what he remembered, everything else seemed to pull him back to a moment of déjà vu.

His own memories of the place came back as he stepped into the entryway, shoes echoing against the hardwood floor. He could almost see the children running around, the little American states intermingling with humans, as other esteemed guests visited with America in the foyer. Alfred's own people of course. America had been in his isolation at the time when this home was most used, and England had simply been a friend, another guest among the multitude. Of times when nations and humans could interact on a less secretive level.

Oh, but the politics had been just as bad.

Shaking his head and blinking his eyes, Arthur willed the thoughts away. The awkward feelings. The pride at seeing America behaving gentlemanly, and yet the burn in his chest that would go unidentified for years to come. He took a deep breath...and smelled the mildew and dank, musky scent of a place long since abandoned.

The wind whistled as it came in from the door, whispering elsewhere as it sneaked its way in through cracked windows. Arthur immediately turned to close the front door, noting the creak as he did so. The place was in disrepair. Having been left alone for so long, it was no wonder that it felt more like a haunted house than an old family dwelling.

"Arthur?"

At the voice, he turned his head, recognizing Alfred's shaking tenor even though it was hardly a murmur – quite the opposite of his usual boisterous self. With a sigh, he dropped his suitcase off beside the door. After all, no one else was bound to be visiting tonight and he could take care of his things in the morning. The plane ride had given him eight hours of sleep, yes, but it was not the best and not what he would generally seek; he needed a good rest after such a flight, but to find Alfred awake and up even at such an hour...

The coat came off and the gloves, hanging the coat up on the rack that was still nicely set up – though he did brush aside a few cobwebs in the process. Then he turned his attention to the drawing room, knowing exactly where Alfred would be sitting as he waited for him – though it still bugged him to know the man hadn't thought it worth his time to stand up and answer the door.

Once he was in the doorway to Alfred's favorite room, he froze, finding the scene not at all what he had been expecting. Alfred was sitting in an armchair, facing the center of the room of course, but he was curled up, dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants and clutching a pillow to his chest. His glasses had been removed and it took him forever to notice Arthur's presence, but once he did the usually hyperactive man finally played his part and jumped up, racing over to England and wrapping him – nearly suffocating him – with a huge bear hug.

"Oh thank god, you made it, Artie!"

He felt his teeth clench and eyes flash at the nickname. Why had he been so perfect and pleading on the phone and yet now -?

Before he could berate the American for his irrational behavior, a touch of an old memory hit his eyesight. There, standing just behind the armchair, almost leaning over it, stood a female version of America. Her hair cut short but curly. Her blue eyes dancing. Her dress...the old white southern maid style of Southern America. In a blink, she was gone, and Arthur was left to wonder if he was seeing things.

"...so you see I _had_ to call you! I don't know what's happening, but -"

"Alfred."

"Huh?"

"Put me down."

In his effort to cling, America had managed to not only pull Arthur into a bear hug but had also lifted him a few inches off the ground. It was reluctantly a cause of Arthur's shorter stature, and normally he would have cursed the brat for picking him up, always showing off his strength and size, but tonight he could let it pass. Besides, after what he had just seen, he was beginning to realize what was happening.

...and he wasn't quite sure what he thought of the new development.

"Oh, right, sorry. I guess I got a little excited," Alfred was saying, letting go and stepping back, a hand going up to the back of his neck, almost sheepish. But then he smiled, shoulders relaxing and eyes lighting up just enough to make Arthur recall the little child still trapped behind the grown man. "I'm so glad you came. I was beginning to wonder -"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "It's an eight hour flight, you git. And I'll have you know, I lost valuable sleep coming out here for you, so you better be ready to explain this sudden whim of yours."

"Ah – right – I knew that." Alfred mumbled, dropping his arm and instead simply staring back. "I really am glad you're here, Artie."

A blush hit his cheeks before he could bite it back, and he scowled at the nickname. But he didn't mention it. There were more important matters to deal with. "I have questions that need answering, Alfred," he said softly, as if gently reminding a child on the more finer points of etiquette (he'd been doing such things with America for _years_ with no result, though).

"Oh, right, uhm, would you like to sit down then?"

Arthur closed his eyes and let out a rush of air in a fast breath. At least the boy was trying. "I suppose." Granted, he'd been sitting for so long, he didn't much feel like sitting now, but if it would get to the bottom of this strange -

"_He's a backstabber."_

He froze, shoulders tensing up, his magical senses locking into full alert. The voice. Just the wind, right? With a frown, he corrected his own mind. He knew better than that. This was an old house. With old memories. Where _she_ still existed. That voice matched the ghostly image from before, with something she would have said during and slightly before those terrible four years...

When a hand grabbed one of his own, Arthur snapped back into focus, dismissing the sixth sense for now but promising himself to keep an eye on the ghost. Alfred was looking at him, blue eyes wide and curious and worried. There was silence between them, neither of them quite willing to move. Fingers threaded through his own, and Arthur could almost emphatically pick up the nerves from the other nation.

Finally, a hoarse whisper. "You feel her, too, don't you?"

Arthur felt his eyebrows lower, felt his eyes narrow as he stared back at the trembling – usually so strong – figure before him. Without a word, he squeezed the hand that found its way in his own, and he walked to the sofa, pulling America down with him. (Well, technically, he walked and Alfred figured out what he was doing, because there would be little use tugging the much stronger nation anywhere).

"I think the situation is much more -" he cut off, seeing Alfred wince and start to curl up again. Squeezing the man's hand again, reassuring, he started again. "Why here?"

"Huh?" America blinked, his eyes glancing around the whole room before landing back on Arthur's. "Oh – well – it's been happening a lot more, lately. Politically, the country is torn in two. Every issue has two polar opposite viewpoints and they both hate the other side. It's – it reminds me of – well -"

Arthur frowned. "So why come here? You know this place has -"

"Yeah, I know," Alfred mumbled, acting more like a child apologizing for a mistake than a grown man explaining his actions. "I just – it was a tug – I couldn't help it."

"_He wants me."_

Feeling his whole body tense this time, Arthur took a few moments to calm his own racing heart beat. Knowing there was a ghost was very different from feeling it – hearing it – just behind you. With a voice that seemed to be positioned just at his ear. With words that seemed meant just for him. Like a warning. A challenge. A...lover...wanting what had been taken from her long ago.

Not just a ghost. A spirit with malice. With a purpose. And also with the chance of being brought back to life. If what Alfred said was true. It had been known to happen. Civil Wars with the same break in the land. Yes, Arthur knew those situations all too well, even if every nation seemed to have a different way of showing the depth of the people's break.

"A-Arthur," Alfred's whimper brought him back to reality again, two hands holding onto both of his arms. "She's creeping me out."

He hissed. "Stop acknowledging her. The more you do that, the more power you give her, the more chance she has of coming back."

Alfred's eyes shot down, awkwardly staring down at Arthur's lap instead of just behind him. England found himself blushing again – just at America's gaze landing _there_. "I don't want another Civil War, Artie," America whispered.

Arthur sighed, raising his own hands to hold Alfred's upper arms. "None of us do, but if it happens..." He cut the statement off, wincing to see America's absolutely frightened gaze when he looked up. "Why did you call me here?" He muttered instead. "You must know it makes it worse."

"I – I don't know." Alfred answered, his voice trembling, even though his stark blue eyes seemed to focus so strictly on Arthur's own gaze. "I just – in case something _did_ happen – I wanted you here." He took a breath. "I wanted you here this time, Arthur."

There it was again, that damnable bloody blush. He cleared his throat in an effort to quell it, or to bring attention away from it, which didn't make too much sense because that only –

"I'll be here for as long as you need me, Alfred."

The line seemed much less corny in his mind, but America seemed to deflate considerably at the words, as if his next exhale also released all the pent up tension. "Oh thank _god_. I thought for sure you wouldn't want to -" A smile. Then lips crashing against his own. Tentatively. Lightly. Just a quick brush, but enough to make his face go redder than he wished. "I'm _really_ glad you're here."

"Y-Yes, w-well -" he couldn't even control his own stuttering, embarrassing voice.

But America didn't comment or tease him about it this time, instead opting to giggle lightly and then fall against him, clinging like a child afraid of the dark. If not for the ghost hovering around the both of them, it might very well have been a special moment. As it was, Arthur tried to relax and let it be the simple comforting gesture it wanted to be, as he let America lean against him, as he brushed at the golden blond hair, as he hummed an old lullaby from even older memories.

...and _she_ continued to watch, still bitter about the way history had told her story.

~!~

_December, 1860_

_Washington D.C., America_

Arthur Kirkland looked out at the yard, watching the several children playing with each other in the snow. From the corner of his eye, he could see their 'father' frowning as he, too, watched them play. The porch swing creaked as it swung back and forth. Alfred was kicking the swing faster than Arthur would have preferred, like a child preoccupied by other things or one who simply couldn't stop himself from always moving.

All the same, Arthur kept a hand on the arm of the porch swing, letting his feet kick back and forth with America's pace. It was an almost useless gesture because Alfred would have continued moving whether or not Arthur tried to stop the swinging. The seat was cold, having been iced over for most of the winter, but Al had insisted. Whenever he visited, the two of them spent a few minutes at the very least sitting here, talking.

Though the talking was getting awkward these days...

"I don't know what to do with them. It's like they're all restless." Alfred shivered. "Like something is about to happen and it's all on edge..."

There was a bitter taste in Arthur's mouth at the descriptions. The words _civil war_ were on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't find the courage to speak them. Not to Alfred. Not to the boy grown into a man, the one he had watched from afar ever since those bitter days of revolution. Even after all that had happened, he still saw America as a child. Even though his nation had thrown a wife into his lap – the one to represent the southern half of the country, as if it was _so_ different.

...which in itself was a sign of incoming civil war.

"How many do you have now?" He asked instead, changing the subject, turning his head to watch the blond-haired blue-eyed child who had grown up too fast for his liking.

Alfred stared out at the snow, as if he were counting all the children playing. It would have been pointless. Even England knew that all the States weren't here. A lot of the northern ones were in their respective areas, visiting with governors, dealing with the winter storms. The southern states had it easier, at least when it came to the winter weather spells.

"Thirty-three," Al finally answered. "Not that I see all of them. The ones on the west coast huddle together and very rarely visit. It's these few," he nodded toward the cluster of kids throwing snowballs at each other, "that I see all the time. I've even got some of their names memorized now!"

Arthur sighed. America had always had a tough time memorizing names, and now that he was splitting himself into such small _states_ – it was no wonder all the children were hard to keep up with. A little part of him was jealous, though, wishing he could have as many little ones running around. The Empire hadn't been the same ever since America left him. Nothing had quite been the same after that.

Before he could comment, the front door opened and then slammed shut. The porch swinging stopped. Arthur winced when his shoes dragged against the iced wood. Alfred had been the one to freeze the swing; Al was always the one to react first. Even sitting in isolation from the rest of the world, he was still hasty and quick to react.

"I'm leaving."

"No, you're not!" Alfred barked, his voice suddenly no where near the child that Arthur was accustomed to, as he sprang to his feet, leaving England on the porch swing alone.

Alone to watch the scene unfold. Ever since he had noticed the tensions, Arthur Kirkland had decided to keep his mouth shut. He would side with neither one of them. As much as he yearned to support Alfred one hundred percent...

Watching him with the children, he began to understand why there was so much unease in the southern states. Currently, Alfred was facing off with one of the teenagers. One of the original thirteen colonies. England actually recognized this one because of that fact.

A twin. Dark blond hair, similar to Alfred's but turning darker as he got older. He had a quick smile and a love for oranges and liked to sleep underneath the palmetto trees prevalent in his home, if England was remembering him correctly at all. His twin was a girl, very similar though with paler skin and she wasn't quite as quick or aggressive as the more southern of the two.

Blue-green eyes met Arthur's and the nation had a flashback. Of a time when this child had stood behind America. Standing tall with arms crossed, even if he was dressed in the outfit of a country bumpkin. Declaring independence eagerly. Eager. Always eager.

"It would be a pleasure to have you visit some day, Mr. Kirkland," the teenager said, shifting a large knapsack on his shoulder, which looked rather awkward because of the heavy jacket and snow suit the boy was wearing.

Arthur blinked. It was a question for more than a visit. A request for support. He frowned and furrowed his brow. Support for what?

"Perhaps," he said as his answer, not wanting to give the boy hope either way.

Alfred looked furious. Positively furious. More upset than Arthur could ever remember him being, but the teenager simply laughed. "...knew you'd say that."

"You're not going anywhere, Roland. Get back in the house and go talk to your mother -" Alfred began.

But was cut off. "She said I had the right to do this. It's in the Constitution, you know." Dirty blond eyebrows lowered. "I'm leaving."

America flinched back at the words, as if the very mention of his country's founding document could snap him into obedience. Arthur didn't know whether to feel sorry for him – or to sneer about payback. Seeing as one of those options was very _not_ gentlemanly, he decided to simply fold his arms and watch. It would be interesting to stay a bystander for once; stand back and watch what America did with his freedom-loving people.

Freedom-obsessed.

South Carolina, Roland, seemed to take his cue and started to walk away, heading down the porch steps and into the snow. Glancing from the boy to Alfred, Arthur felt his heart clench at the very similarity echoing from the past. Only this time he was a bystander and Alfred was the one losing a child.

_Hurts, doesn't it?_ He wanted to say. Oh, how he wanted to say it, but he kept his mouth shut, green eyes alert and watchful.

Alfred took a few steps forward, but the boy was already at the edge of the property. He'd already passed the other children, who had stopped their games to stare, some of them certainly too young to understand the teenage rebellion. Or the underlying truth to what this incident really meant. What was coming. What was beginning to be inevitable.

"You get back here! I didn't give you permission to -!"

Roland turned back, a smile on his face. "I'm seceding from the Union! As of now South Carolina is for South Carolina." He gestured to the other children and said something, but the wind and distance hid it from Arthur's ears. Instead, he caught, "And I hope to see you soon, Mr. Kirkland!"

Mr. Kirkland. Always Mr. Kirkland to the kids. And to the wife, who was strangely absent during this incident; she must have been supportive of the boy. Honestly, she probably caused it. She was always nagging at Alfred, always telling him how he couldn't focus on one half of the other country, how they were really so different.

Arthur sighed into the silence. "Well, that was -"

"He didn't even say goodbye," Alfred whispered, his body seemingly frozen in place, his eyes still watching where South Carolina had disappeared down the snow covered path.

~!~

_A/N: Whooo historical hetalia. American Civil War time. I do believe I have an interesting interpretation, but we'll see. I like __the idea of telling it from Arthur's point of view as a bystander (because, really, Britain was quite determined to remain uninvolved and neutral, even though, as shown here, the southern states were expecting help from either Britain or France). And for some reason, I just have this idea of Iggy always visiting America. And, yeah, it's UsUk, but it'll come. If you can't see it already, you will._

_**Historical References:**_

_-South Carolina was the first state to the secede from the Union on December 20, 1860. _

_-__ Also, interesting fact, the first decisive victory of the Revolutionary War was won on June 28__th __1776 at Fort Moultrie on Sullivan's Island. AND The initial overt act of the Revolution occurs before that on July 12, 1775 at Fort Charlotte in McCormick County; the first British property seized by force by the American Revolution forces._

_(Oh, and November is election month every four years for Presidency. This past November showed us (once again, really) how divided the United States is on policy. I get chills looking at the red/blue maps as the votes come in, because it's so eerily similarly close to the Union/Confederate lines during the Civil War.) _

_~I appreciate all reviews/alerts/favorites/etc and I hope you enjoy~_

_~Reda_


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